milliways_bar | (no subject)

Have another individual at the bar who's oddly subdued.

Sam may or may not recognize him on sight -- he is wearing hardly any makeup, although sometimes it seems as if the dark eyeshadow and crimson lips never really completely fade away, if you get close enough to him. Still, he is wearing that black leather trench coat, a cigarette forever pinched between his fingers, a glass of gin near his hand.

"Guten Abend, my dear Sam."

Perhaps they might be subdued together.

"Good evening." She has a smile for him after ordering her tea (Oh frabjous day, it comes with loose leaves rather than those nasty tea bags. "I trust you're doing well?"

And he appreciates the brave, lovely smile.

"Relatively well, I suppose," he sighs with an exhalation of cigarette smoke. "Dealing with some sort of peculiar metaphorical hangover at the moment, but I daresay the mood will pass soon. I am more annoyed with it than anything -- and being annoyed with one's own mood surely exacerbates matters."

"My father would probably recommend a nice brisk walk followed by a swim... of course, that does tend to be the recommendation for quite a lot of things, and I suspect it often had less to do with actually helping than getting whoever it was out of the house for a while, and he probably wouldn't know what to do with this place anyway, so... well."

Oh look, tea! Sam busies herself with it instead of rambling explanations.

It's on her fifth word when he props his chin up in the palm of his hand and just...looks at her, with mild amusement. Perhaps he's listening, too.

Sometimes it really doesn't take much to lift his mood, or at least shunt it aside for something more pleasant for the time being. And Sam is definitely very pleasant.

"Yes, well, your father seems like a practical man, but I think being here is as 'out of the house' as anybody can get," he says wryly.

"In any case, darling, what about you? How have you been since we last conversed over...I believe it was a bacon and tomato sandwich?"

Oooh. Sandwich. That is a good memory. Though she did get a very nice dinner the other night, so she's not as food-focused as usual.

Mostly, anyway.

"Not terribly badly - they've taken all the signs down, which I suppose they knew they were going to do as that's why I'm Mr. Foyle's driver in the first place - I know the area, so I don't really need the signs. It's just that some of the cases..."

Well, no, that's a lie. She likes the cases, quite a bit. They're interesting and they catch horrid people. It's... just the current one.

He tends to remember the little things that people enjoy. It's his nature (and also his job).

Tilting his head at her, he waits for her to go on.

"Some of the cases...aren't to your liking?" he ventures, going by the way she trailed off.

"Oh no, it's not... well. A local family took in one of the London refugees - clever lad, took down my licence plate number when we visited the estate on other business - the head of the family's a judge, you see, and there was a problem with one of the people he passed judgement on. Only there must have been other problems, because someone started targeting the judge - thrown bricks through the window and the like, but..." She can see the little boy, both very shy and very bold, demanding to know her name, affronted that she'd have a 'boy's' name. "Someone rigged a grenade, and..."

bricks through the window

The phrase alone triggers something inside him.

But a grenade?

A grenade?

"Oh, dear God, no."

The words are a low murmur, the horror in his voice controlled.

"Was anyone...hurt?"

He dreads the answer.

Distress flits across her expression, chased away by the composure she pulls down like a suit of armor.

"They say he was close enough when it went off that he would have felt nothing at all." She replies in a voice that's a hollow approximation of matter-of-fact. "He was just eleven, he probably didn't even know what the grenade was."

"Scheiße," he whispers, and he exhales a short, strained sigh and glances away, shaking his head a little.

Sometimes it seems as if the cruelty of humans outweighs their supposed humanity.

Looking back at Sam, he sees a stoicism that she shouldn't have to force upon herself, except that without it, the circumstances would be unbearable. And he knows what that is like.

"Does Mr. Foyle know who is responsible?"

"Not yet, but he will find out." She is very glad people like DCS Foyle are still working, because whoever would rig a trap like this deserves to hang. Why bother to fight the Nazis if you're going to abide people like that?

He nods.

"The way you have spoken of him so far, I have every confidence that he will, as well."

And he means it.

"What is he like, your Mr. Foyle?" he then asks, just to get her talking.

She pauses to think about this - after all, she's still getting to know the man herself, in many ways.

"He's easy to underestimate, I think - he keeps his opinions to himself, until they're needed, and sometimes people don't realize he's terribly clever until they've gone and said something they shouldn't have. And he seems very stern, but he does have a very good sense of humor once you get to know him."

"He sounds as if he has got a good head on his shoulders," he says with a mild little smile. "Which, I would think, would be an important requirement for his position, as good heads always seem to be in rather short supply."

He refrains from joking about another type of good head because she wouldn't get it anyway and plus he is just that courteous tonight.

If she did get it, he might be able to see if it is actually possible for one MTC driver to die of embarrassment, because it's Mister Foyle and oh dear goodness no. Just no.

As it is, she nods, with a wry twist to her lips.

"You'd be surprised... well, maybe you wouldn't, but quite a lot of supposedly responsible people have gone absolutely balmy with the threat of invasion."

As much as he would think it would be hilarious to see Sam blush to a crisp, he does have a sense of mercy.

"Is it that much of a threat?" he asks, curious but a little doubtful, although history (his future, essentially) may prove him wrong.

"And in any case, there are far worse reasons for people to lose their heads. Such as running out of cigarettes, or drinking the last of your supply of gin. ...Or wait, that would be just me."

"Well, everyone seems to think it is, to one degree or another - all the signs are down, there's reminders everywhere to hide one's maps and food... unless the Americans join the war, I don't see how there won't at least be an attempt." Of course, there's also still talk about the war being over by Christmas, but sometimes Sam thinks the only way that will happen is if the invasion does come, and they lose entirely.

"And if the rationing keeps up, we're going to start running out of cigarettes as well - perhaps more people will be losing their heads than you think."

He tics his head. "You make a good point about the cigarettes..."

And it strikes him with a pang that he knows. Or at least, he knows some version of this future. It may still be filled with war, but it isn't without hope.

How much should he tell her?

"They do join, you know," he says quietly, after a pensive moment. "The Americans. I've met one here, a while ago. A soldier."

"I do hope so." There's that smile again, because at some point it becomes normal to carry on despite the war. "You know, I've never met an American except here, and he was from some point in the future - I wonder if they're anything like in the pictures."

She inspires him to smile as well.

"Now that I think on it, I have met more Americans in Berlin than I have here. But you know what they say, truth is stranger than fiction, and the ones you wind up meeting turn out to be more fascinating than any character out of a film."

Except in Milliways, sometimes they really could be from a film, but let's not examine the metaphysics of that.

"Either way, there's bound to be some stationed nearby if they do come, so at least the dances will be more interesting." Between the draft and volunteers, those going to dances have either become considerably older or increasingly defensive that they aren't in uniform (especially when she is).

Well, except for Tony, but she's pretty sure that he's not necessarily interested in her, but rather excited about the idea that he's stepping out at all. It's adorable, and a tiny bit disheartening.

"Oh, Americans make everything a lot more interesting," he assures her with a smirk.

It's then that he considers this moment with a thoughtful pause. And he turns to her with an open, earnest look.

"If I asked you to dance with me, right here, right now -- would you?"

She blinks back at him, and then shrugs.

"Why yes, I believe I would - after all, you should be good at it, and you've been kind. You're already doing better than the last fellow I danced with."

Poor Tony - so eager, but two left feet.

"Well, then! With any luck, I may even do better than the next fellow you dance with."

He hops off his stool. "One moment."

And he crosses the room to the jukebox -- his spare time here has not been exactly idle, so he's figured out how to work the curious thing. He selects "Falling in Love Again" by Marlene Dietrich almost naturally, and soon the rich strains of a waltz drift through the speakers.

Then, approaching Sam, he gallantly offers her a hand, bowing slightly, a twinkle in his dark eyes.

"May I please have this dance, Fraulein?"